𝐌𝐬. 𝐇𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐭𝐨𝐧 | 𝖱𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽-𝖱

6 | Officially - P1

𝐋𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐧
–
𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫

"Ms. Hamilton?" I questioned startled after sensing being watch and having a figure standing over me. Lo and behold, my yet-to-be boss was in my room; hands in her pockets and her shadow casting downwards on me. "Is there something that we need to do?" I ask, shifting onto my back, as she continues to look on, in a trance.

"Yes, we do, actually," she spoke, "We have a dinner to attend to–a business dinner, sorry. And this is your shot to prove to me that you're ready." If I'm being honest, I am kind of offended. I mean, is all the work I've been putting in, isn't good enough? Organizing her meetings, ripping and running to get her coffee, taking every harsh word that was delivered to me because I didn't do anything right–is that not good enough for her?

"To see if I'm ready?" I ask, taken back, trying to at least contain my emotions. But I can't, I'm not her, I can't mask anything–and I won't. "Haven't I've done everything to prove that I should be your assistant?"

A moment has flew by, and I may or may not have ticked off a nerve. Her spring-like eyes are developing depth. It's dark–dark when she was ready to devour me, dark when she was possessed with lust. "Be ready and in my room by seven-thirty. Not eight-o-one, not eight-o-five. Seven-thirty. If you're late. Then you're fired before you're hired," she then adds, unmoved, "Until next time," then left me there, baffled, without another glance back.

As soon as I got up, I stalk into the restroom; doing all of my hygienes. After tussling my hair, I went to fish for some professional clothing to put on for the event, and as I am rummaging through my drawers; I think, I really need to cut my hair. Then it dawned on me. All of my things are in the washing room. "Fuck–shit!" I blur over to my dresser; nearest the bed, then sat down carefully. My body begin to froth up as I reach into the drawer, pulling out the black card she'd given to me. "I could go out and buy something new–like a fancy dress, undergarments. And a fresh haircut," I muttered, weighing the decision.

Later, after battling myself, I stumble upon Normani's room door. It doesn't feel convenient stalking off and not giving her my whereabouts. I chewed on my lip, as my knuckles raise to the door, but halted when I heard muffled speaking. The only thing I could make is: what are you wearing? and I miss you, too. I know why I tear up, yet knock the reason off my shoulders. Tired of being choked up, I left the door in an hustle and went back into to my room. Exhaling edgily, an idea explores mind, and I inwardly smile.

•¥•

oмnιѕcιənт

"You're on time..." Normani's sentence is being backed up from being astonish, and that's the reaction the latina scored for. The lock click behind her just as the pen slip from between the ebony goddess's fingers. The sole of her oxfords leads in her direction and every step inches forward; Lauren's heart takes a beating. "We should get going now," she calmly stated, her chest picking up an rate, "There's a lot to get done. I hope you're ready..."

Her usual cinnamon, brown eyes darken once the short-haired says, "I'm always ready...Ms. Hamilton."

The cuban is suppose to be filled with anger, and replacing that anger with revenge, but instead, found herself falling for the way the other woman's eyes twirl for her, in delight. The anger decreases into an small piece of speck, then proofed its way from her heart; once Normani's hand made contact with her stout cheek–her skin. The way her skin set Lauren's on fire from just a touch, she begins to believes that this woman was god herself. It's unbelievable.